


Of Trust and Other Foolish Endeavors

by tipsybluetips



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, actually reluctant coworkers to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tipsybluetips/pseuds/tipsybluetips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trust is not invested lightly among the citizens of Thedas. More than a bond between people, trust is a feat of courage in a land where gods of old are the demons of the hour and not even the skies manage to remain unblemished. More than a simple feeling, trust is a treasure that can be too easily picked apart.</p><p>Dorian Pavus trusts only himself. That has to be enough to aid Commander Cullen lead the Inquisition armies to victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for giving this fic a chance!
> 
> This is not only my first fanfic in the Dragon Age fandom, but also the first WIP I post in nearly a decade. I'm very excited to carry out a longer fanfic project after so long with just one-shots, and I'm eager to get your input as this story progresses!
> 
> This fanfic has not been proofread by anyone other than myself, so if you spot any mistakes, please point them out so I can correct them!

Engrossed as he is in finding at least one reliable text in that Maker-forsaken excuse of a library, Dorian figures the soldier who shuffles awkwardly a few steps away has been calling him for awhile. “Let me guess, has the Inquisitor requested my presence for an audience?”

The girl flinches, tries to hold onto a shiver, stutters a bit - all of that in such a magnitude that Dorian notices even from the edge of his sight. He pretends to keep perusing through the spines of useless books, if only to spare the soldier the embarrassment of making eye contact with the Evil Magister From The Cursed Imperium. The Inquisitor is one of the few people who would have any interest in sending Dorian a message, but of course the courier will interpret his reasonable guess as some sort of suspicious magical act. “Yes, sir. At the Commander’s office, sir magister, sir.”

Dorian sighs heavily, finally turning to face the messenger. The girl can’t be older than seventeen, freckles shadowed by her helmet and an Orlesian accent that lacks the refinery and pomp of Val Royeux - he’d bet a sovereign she’s a refugee from the Dales. This is the kind of simple folk who the Inquisitor leads. This is the kind of soldier who will face Venatori out there. This is the kind of person who Corypheus would see extinct - by remembering those facts, Dorian’s struggle not to lose his cool at her fear becomes much simpler. Tevinter mages were the bogeymen in her bedtime stories, and now she’s forced to deliver a message to one. “I’ll be there shortly. Thanks for the message, corporal…?”

She hesitates, dread to see her name put in a blood circle or to offend one of the Inquisitor’s friends clashing terribly. “Soldier Durant, sir magister, sir.”

“Soldier Durant, then. Military rank can be awfully confusing, much like every other title hierarchy out there. I myself am not a magister, though I certainly understand why anyone would think me so prestigious. Let’s just agree that ‘Lord Pavus’ will suffice next time.” The girl is still shaking as he pats her shoulder on his way down the stairs, feeling a joyless kind of pride at not having made a fool out of himself for so little. Dorian did not come south expecting anything warm, least of all a welcome.

Past the main rotunda and off to the walkway to the watchtowers, Dorian sees Skyhold growing into a mix of training camp, refugee shelter, market, negotiation room and makeshift home. The fortress is no small blessing in the direness of their times, yet restoring it is not a simple task. They arrived from Haven with way too many losses to their numbers and only a frantic sense of hope to bring them under the same banner - the bones of the Inquisition barely fit together to let it stand, a disconjointed mess of rebel mages, hired mercenaries, loyal troops and desperate recruits.

That, and a renegade altus. It’s no wonder he’s still regarded with unkind eyes by some of their forces - Dorian himself makes conscious effort to trust Adaar’s decisions on a daily basis, even after they saved each other’s lives in that monstrous parallel time dimension.

Dorian approaches the chambers only recently occupied by Commander Cullen to find their door closed. Inside, an argument storms at a tone that is not hushed enough to remain unknown by the attentive bypasser, neither loud enough for its words to be heard without outright pressing one’s ear to the door. Dorian is perfectly aware that eavesdropping is beneath him, thus he only considers the option for a few unfruitful seconds before opening the door with a clang and parading into the room. 

“My dearest Inquisitor, why do I owe you the pleasure of leaving that pathetic travesty of a library?” Dorian feels each of his words scythe through the tension in the room, as both the qunari mage and the former templar have been clearly interrupted. Adaar opens a smile for him, but the Commander’s permanent frown seems to get etched a bit deeper into his face. “Not that this room looks much more promising - this rustic atmosphere can only be tolerated for so long before getting old, I’m afraid.”

It takes only a second for the Fereldan man to divert his dagger stare from the Inquisitor to Dorian. “It should go without saying the Inquisition has more pressing issues to solve than a perceived lack of décor style,” Cullen’s voice is a sword forge - hot with impatience, cold for shock. Were Dorian a more impressionable man, he might have been intimidated. As it is, he doesn’t deign the remark with more answer than a raised eyebrow.

“Dorian is not wrong - our highest general needs a decent study as soon as possible, if only to send the correct message to our troops,” Adaar intervenes, arms crossed over her chest and a dangerous gleam in the eyes she keeps trained on Cullen like a viper to prey. “But you are not wrong, either. We do have more important things to deal with right now, like the very urgent matter of integration of the mages in our troops. Which you need help with, Cullen. You know you do.”

“I am perfectly aware that the death of Enchanter Fiona has left the free mages a bit more free than they would ever want to be,” Cullen grits out in a voice that suggests this conversation is moving in a circular pattern. The Commander wouldn’t pass as a man who likes to repeat himself under any circumstances, ever. “Still, I trust they will fall into line with the infantry with enough practice.”

Dorian’s laughter is as short as the tempers of his interlocutors, more for their sakes than his own. He really feels like laughing long time. “Perish the thought of ever questioning your good sense for the preservation of the troops, Commander, but you cannot be suggesting your southerner bunch of fugitive mages - raised in towers like corralled princesses in distress, tried and tested in being good at violent uprisings but materially crap at keeping themselves alive long after that - will simply learn their place in the ranks by natural inclination,” Dorian brushes nonexistent dust off his shoulder, eyeing Cullen from the edge of his vision. He knew Fiona’s passing at Haven would cause a disturbance in the mages’ placement within the Inquisition, headless chickens that they would become. Cullen’s idea of simply assigning them for battalions and letting them show their worth the hard way is naïve, to say the least. “How many good souls are you willing to spare for their intuitive learning?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Adaar nods, moving closer to Cullen’s desk and leaning her weight on it, curving her back to stare levelly at the blond man. “I was the mage of a mercenary force before all of this began, so trust me when I say we magic folk can cause more damage to our mates than our enemies when we don’t know what we should be doing. Circle mages are trained for everything but combat, and tentative hope in the Inquisition may not be the fuel for efficiency that centuries of oppression have proven to be in the rebellion.”

It takes a strong man to face the Inquisitor from that up close and not balk at her vehemence. Never let Cullen’s strength be questioned. “I have lead troops - ours and the templars, before - through adversity and improvisation before, giving my all. We should not divert any resources from where they are needed. This is no different.”

“It is, if only because you don’t have to do it alone,” Adaar’s voice softens as one of her hands rises to take her Commander by the shoulder. “All I want is to spare us from employing great efforts where they can be simpler. If I could, I would train them personally.”

“Yet we all know that is not a feasible option,” Cullen couldn’t radiate more frustration if he tried. Dorian thinks those furrowed eyebrows look quite dashing on the man, but then again, he has found the Commander particularly good-looking since his first visit to the war room. Pity that Cullen has all the personality of a drenched mabari.

More piteous, however, is the amount of time it takes Dorian to realize exactly what he has been summoned for. He feels foolish even as he clears his throat to draw the attention of both Inquisition leaders.

“The case being so, you seem to think I could replace you in that task, Inquisitor. Or am I here to enchant Commander Cullen into better reason with my irresistible good looks? A blood ritual or two on the side, perhaps?” Now it is Dorian whose arms are crossed over his chest in the most classic of defensive stances, a note of bitter distaste staining his voice. Some manner of forewarning would have been a simple pleasantry. More than making decisions on the spot, Dorian detests shouldering the expectations of others - especially unannounced ones.

For a former mercenary, Adaar has been turning into a skilled politician with each passing day. When she releases Cullen’s shoulder and turns to Dorian, her face has already changed into a reassuring smile. “I don’t just think you could be the best consultant for Cullen to deal with mage integration, I’m sure of it. I can take someone else in my quests if I need magic support beyond my own staff, but I can’t expect either of our mage friends to guide our reinforcements properly. Vivienne is too bound to Circle tradition, the rebels would resent her, especially since they have no option on the fact their Commander is a former templar - I’d rather appoint a more liberal person to reassure them Cullen’s work history is not a threat to their freedom. And Solas… he has been by himself for too long to know anything of military uses for mages, or of integration in general.”

Dorian should feel flattered - and to some extent, he does, helpless egocentric that he is. It is nonetheless unsettling to realize the place he’s been claiming as his own in the Inquisition is shifted without his planning, no matter how prestigious the new position may prove itself to be.

“I, on the other hand, am an altus from Tevinter, who has not only extensive academic knowledge of magic and strategy, but has also partaken on the national pastime of battling the the Qunari from a high-ranked position, thanks to a military structure based on nobility,” Dorian finishes the line of reasoning for her, eyebrow so high up his forehead that it nearly fades into his hairline. Nice picture of him, but simplistic. “I can’t help but think you haven’t given the aversion of southerners for mages of the Imperium its due weight in the equation.”

Adaar shrugs, unconcerned. “You don’t have to please all of Thedas, that’s my job. I only need you to give the mages of the Inquisition some light, and most of them were in Redcliffe anyway, they know what you’ve done for us. I’m sure they have no bigger problem with your nationality than with the horns on my head.”

“Which they do, just not in a way that makes any difference,” Dorian smiles more nicely than he first intended. Bickering with that woman is one of the few highlights of his runaway mission.

“Precisely. It likewise makes no difference that you’re a Vint, so you can help Cullen put our mages in shape like nobody else here.”

Silence takes over the office like the Blight on the Deep Roads. Dorian catches himself thumbing the edge of his chin, the faintest suggestion of stubble making his skin itch as an afterthought of discomfort. Cullen looks like something in the room stinks - Dorian’s Tevinter magic, probably. The Inquisitor just keeps on smiling between them, architect of a bridge that would not be built otherwise.

Eventually, Cullen slowly extends his gloved hand across the stacks of reports on his desk. “As you wish, Inquisitor. Your assistance is welcome, Dorian,” the words have the remnant of a snarl in their core, but maybe that is just how Cullen’s speech pattern works on a regular basis.

There is something barely tamed about the Commander, far wilder than the heavy pelt hanging around his shoulders. Dorian fought at the Inquisitor’s side when Corypheus attacked Haven, but that did not stop him from seeing how Cullen led the troops that night - ruthless but sensible, fierce yet cautious with every single life under his orders, the man is nothing but a well-balanced sword, equally graceful and deadly. Cullen has already shown, from the dregs of Haven to their hasty takeover in Skyhold, he wields the rage of a thousand lions with only a sharp, dutiful mind as a leash.

Dorian has always been wary of people whose reigns over their passions are so tightly maintained. Still, Adaar is only asking him to be a mage consultant in military affairs, a position that is within the reach of his expertise. Dorian might as well keep pulling his weight in the Inquisition - the person he’s closest to calling a friend thinks he’s more useful showing the templar in charge how mages are meant to wage war, so Dorian makes the decision to trust Adaar yet again. “I’m sure that working under you will be a true pleasure, Commander,” he shakes Cullen’s hand, not at all surprised with the firmness of his hold despite the dash of red on the man’s cheeks.

Ah, chaste southern Chantry folk, all so easily flustered with a suggestive choice of words or two. Dorian cannot contain a little peal of laughter, especially when Cullen blushes harder at noticing he is the one who has to withdraw his hand.

“I’m glad to see we could solve this matter sensibly,” Adaar grins, squeezing their shoulders before heading out of the office. “I’ll leave you boys to do your thing, then. Now, where to find Varric...”

They watch the Inquisitor’s formidable form disappear as the door closes behind her, then stare at each other for one very awkward second before Dorian retrieves his political smile from some rusty place he hasn’t visited much since he left the Pavus estate. “From the tone of the conversation we’ve just had, I’d guess you have as much clue of where to start as I do.”

“You’d guess somewhat incorrectly, since this was my top priority even before the Inquisitor intervened,” Cullen scrubs his face as if his aggravation alone could remove the shadow of a beard from his jaw, but after a second his eyes sharpen onto the reports in front of him, his shoulders stand squared, and his posture gains a rigidness that looks almost comfortable in its familiarity. He’s a soldier with a mission, and nothing will hinder its accomplishment. Thus, he points at one of the highest piles of vellum on his desk. “These are the notes left by Enchanter Fiona we have salvaged from Haven - it’s not much, but it gives us an idea of how the rebel mages organized themselves before the Venatori meddling. I have also requested a survey on our mage ranks to assess their skills and specializations. Don’t think me stupid enough to send healers with the infantry vanguard.” 

Alexius had done far worse than merely meddling in Redcliffe, but it would be terribly unbecoming of Dorian to let a personal wound bleed all over such a tender professional matter, thus he keeps smiling. “I only accuse people of stupidity I have personally witnessed, Commander. As far as I’m concerned, your leadership has yet to disappoint. And as far as it concerns the rebel mages… well, I’m here to make sure your record remains untarnished.”

Cullen sits on his chair heavily, all armor and burdens he obviously hesitates to share, then points to the small and derelict chair that sits on the corner. “To work, then?”

“This furniture is an atrocity not only of style, I’ll have you know,” Dorian jibes simply because he can, pulling the chair over and feeling a backache start to form immediately. He knows Cullen stares at him darkly for his troubles, but he has already picked up the first scroll on the pile and started studying it.

Cullen may be a soldier with a mission, but Dorian is a scholar with a problem to solve. Between them, there’s no doubt on whose ability to focus on dry text wins.


	2. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so thankful for your sweet welcome and feedback! I'll try my best to keep this fic with constant updates - every fortnight, give or take - so please stay tuned!
> 
> Once again, this is not proofread, so if you find any spelling/grammar mistakes, please point them out so I can edit them away!

Nothing could have prepared Dorian for the southern cold - neither the lengthy manuscripts about effects of ambient temperature on elemental spells he studied fastidiously as a young lad, nor the somewhat truthful jokes about barbarians wrapped in so much fur they are hardly told apart from their war hounds. Unlike this nightmare of frozen rock, his Tevinter is a land of brightly-lit days and pleasantly fresh evenings - Dorian resents the fact his bare shoulder is more of an impractical fashion statement than an improvement to his spellcasting movements ever since he chose to do the right thing.

He resents even more wondering whether the right thing is so right, after all.

The cold air bites him, threatening to frost the skin of his shoulder and face and hands, scorching his insides, down his sinuses and into his lungs. In and out it rips at Dorian as he breathes, yet he keeps on swirling his staff, twisting and turning upon himself as he dances his mind to exhaustion in the training camps just outside the walls. He evokes fire and ice and thunder and horror, allowing his will to tear at the training dummies, letting magic pour out of his hands like demons from the Breach.

It feels at times as if a tiny Rift lies within him - a tear in the Veil right in the middle of his soul, whence he calls upon enchantment and wonder into the real world, but which consumes him slowly, insidiously. Other times, he is sure it is just homesickness for a rotten empire. Just disgust and blind, sharp, mindless outrage at his father’s attempted crimes. Just betrayal and bitter sadness at Alexius’ choices.

Or, as it is, at Alexius’ end, brought by the Inquisitor’s blade at some point that very morning.

Dorian did not stay to watch the execution - his mentor’s image is blemished enough, a decapítated body is not how he wishes to remember the magister. Besides... Dorian wasn’t sure he would ever be able to look Adaar in the eye once more if he saw her bring that harsh justice upon Alexius, of all people.

In all truth, even now Dorian doesn’t know if he wants to face the woman so soon. If he sees her, he may question her - if he questions her, he may find this place is not where he is supposed to be. And if not in the Inquisition, where else? He left Minrathous with little thought and all the drive of a desperate man, but even his desperation has frozen over and shattered in this icy wasteland.

The only thing Dorian Pavus has left is a conscience, so he twirls his staff and trains on, hoping to feel it is clean.

With only the cutting wind for company, with Skyhold at his back and a sea of stone and clouds stretching before him, Dorian lets the hours take their toll upon him - he doesn’t know how long it takes but at some point his limbs are moving without command, muscle memory letting him raise the staff in a flurry of flames, spin it across his shoulders in an arc of electricity, hit the ground to freeze again the snow that melts around his ankles and soils his robes. Breathing hurts but calling his magic hurts more and he keeps doing it, emptying his power where his brain refuses to shut up for a single second - memories of happier moments fizzle into arcane discharges, yet they don’t seem to dissipate as fast as his mana. Repetitive motion nearly puts him in a trance - Dorian only stops when he feels his knees hitting the snow but his head is almost as high as the green gash in the skies.

Dorian knows with a primal instinct he doesn’t want to deal with anything the Fade has to offer to his current mental state, so he lets the cold air burn deep into his lungs in one long gulp of sobriety. Both he and Alexius fell to their knees in Skyhold today, but only one of them has the chance to stand up again. Dorian will not waste it.

He heads back into the fortress with fumbling steps aided by his staff. Skyhold is not home and today it seems to be even more unkind than its broken walls and rotting timbers suggest, but Dorian forewent warmth in plenty of senses when he left Tevinter. 

He is still in a dizzy stupor, trying to avoid an overly ridiculous death by tripping on the stairs to the main hall, when a familiarly gloved hand stills him by the arm. “You’re late,” Cullen informs simply, eyeing Dorian’s doubtlessly shivering form with faint distaste. “And if we were in the Marshes, I’d easily take you for one of the undead.”

Dorian blinks owlishly at the man for a second, fighting internally to scrape together any dignity he may still possess in spite of his recent self-inflicted exhaustion. Then he manages a smile, even if it grows only on one corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid I’m yet to give the Chantry sisters the pleasure of my passing, though rest assured there’s not one man in this castle I’d rather see releasing my body from a curse than the dashing Commander of the Inquisition forces.”

To Cullen’s credit, he seems only marginally flustered. Dorian must be losing his touch - only a few days working together and the blond prude is already becoming impervious to his flirtatious humor. “Thanks, I guess... Be as it may, I’d refrain from pulling more light shows in the near future. The troops were alarmed, to say the least.”

An icicle through each lung would surely feel more amenable than Dorian’s sudden loss for words. Of course. 

Of course the soldiers on watch saw his little venting session just outside the walls - from the angle of his tower, Cullen himself may have caught a glimpse of his frantic spellcasting. Magic is hardly ever a discreet business, even worse when emotional turmoil is involved.

Of course Dorian has made a fool out of himself - irresponsible, flashy fop, scaring the soldiers into thinking their Vint mage captain is crazier than the entire band of ragtag inquisitorial advisors put together. One does not spend enough magic power to destroy a village without hitting anything but wooden dummies and thin air and remain respectable.

Of course he would let his senseless heart get in the way - it has never been anywhere else, after all.

“I can only hope our mage charges will face that as a challenge on magical prowess,” Dorian shrugs in feigned nonchalance, continuing his way up the stairs. To his mild grief but not surprise, Cullen turns on his heel and falls into step with the dark-haired man. “I realize I left you waiting for our meeting earlier today and I apologize for that, by the way. I’d offer to solve the matters of the day right now, but...”

“But you stink and you’re wet and you are going to pass out as soon as you are out of sight,” Cullen summarizes with a certain prominence to his permanent frown, gesturing with one hand as if an insect came toward him. Annoyance, Dorian muses, is much more satisfying when one is treated like a cat in heat instead of an insistent fly. “Come by my office in the evening, if you feel better. I’ll have someone bring food to your quarters.”

The Commander marches off with the stride of a man who would rather be doing his work by himself, thank you very much, instead of babysitting an emotional wreck of a mage who doesn’t even get the chance to respond. Dorian feels a lump in his throat as he tries to swallow - it’s probably blood from the wound to his pride. Then he realizes that standing on the main hall like a willow tree will help absolutely nobody, thus the altus resumes his slow trek to his bedroom.

Sleeping the day away sounds like a blessing, but Dorian doesn’t feel very worthy of any divine intervention right then. Rather, he dunks a healing potion on his empty stomach and clambers to the edge of his bed to remove boots, pants, robes - all of them soaking through with melted snow and sweat. 

Cullen wasn’t exaggerating, he does stink. It takes him a few moments, spent mostly looking at the dark stones of the wall and trying to arrange his thoughts into something vaguely coherent, but Dorian eventually takes each painful step towards the deep wash basin on the corner. On normal days he would heat up the water the servants left there in the morning with a quick flick of magic, but today he prefers to brave the cold in all of its wet glory instead of bullying another spell out of his soul. Washcloth in hand, he scrubs at his body slowly but fastidiously, trying not to pine too hard for the day when Josephine will manage to bring some Orlesian bathtubs to the fortress.

He has just slipped into fresh pants and undershirt when somebody knocks on the door. “I’m sorry but the cook says it’s too early for dinner no matter if it’s Andraste herself asking for it, sir, but there was some soup from lunchtime still on the stove,” the serving boy apologizes in lieu of greetings, handing Dorian a tray with a full bowl of vegetable broth and some bread and cheese. Plentiful, considering how precarious was their situation just one month prior, when they took the trip to Skyhold.

“Thanks,” Dorian replies automatically, more concerned with exactly how long he let himself waste energy into not thinking about his mentor’s execution. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner, the pale sunlight filtering through overcast skies only hints at mid-afternoon. 

His other escape route would be liquor, which would have left his thought processes equally addled and his motor skills just as compromised. Training still grants him a veneer of honor to maintain if pressed into it, where the bottle would leave him only more disgrace.

Dorian doesn’t know which is better, but by this point, it doesn’t matter - if bad comes to worse, he still can try and see what both distractions will look like when combined.

The food settles heavily on his stomach but Dorian eats most of it, if only to prove a point to himself. Then he stares longingly at his pillow for a very long while, finishes getting dressed, and heads toward Cullen’s office.

“You’ll have to show better assessment skills next time, Commander,” Dorian smiles to the best of his ability as he enters the room where he has spent most of the time last week, when not in the battlements trying to make sense of conflicting reports about their mage contingents. “Only two of your points about my earlier state were even vaguely accurate, and they have been corrected before I ever passed out.”

Cullen, standing up with his forehead pressed tightly against a step of the ladder to his bedchambers, interrupts his reading of a long letter to stare at Dorian. He does it from the corner of his eye for a lengthy minute, which grows to be very eloquent in its silence. “So you bathed and put on dry clothes to come and pass out over here, instead. Well, let’s try and get something done before that happens.”

Dorian scoffs, even if he sits at his rickety chair with a bit too much relief. “What a man of little faith. Didn’t your Revered Mother back in wherever teach you to show mercy for the hurt and strength for the weary?”

“They probably tried at some point. Most of the time, though, the Chantry was busier teaching me how to recognize weakness on a mage’s countenance to exploit it for capture... or slaughter,” Cullen shrugs as he turns around, but he looks at Dorian with a blandness that is not characteristic of the man.

Cullen may be too dry, too focussed, too harsh, too serious, too dedicated - hell, if there’s anything fun about the man at all, is that he is always too much. Blandness fits him poorly - reclined against the ladder, he looks as tired as Dorian feels.

It is a rough day for everyone, it seems. Dorian sincerely doesn’t want to know why Cullen is less than his fierce self today, but he doesn’t feel like he can leave that be, either. “Oh Commander, you have no idea how you make my heart throb when you speak that way. The thrill of excitement in battle, the sweet bout of danger in being manhandled by brute Templar force… I don’t think I can concentrate in the needs of our forces, right now. I have to clear my mind before anything gets done.”

The scar on Cullen’s lip twists as he opens his mouth to answer as crossly as he looks, yet he stops mid motion. Then, he scrubs the back of his neck slowly, brown eyes drifting to a blank space on the wall - a common occurrence among lost souls, indeed. Dorian, bred and raised for uniqueness, always feels terribly unsettled when he finds things in common with others - especially when those things are his failures and those people are so blatantly better souls than he would ever want to be.

“I hear chess is as popular in the Imperium as it is over here,” Cullen says at last, moving around his desk and rummaging through the drawers. He pulls out a wooden box which proves to reveal a nice set of carved pieces. “You strike me as the sort who’d play.”

Fickle thing, the human mood, for Dorian catches himself enjoying a bout of satisfaction bloom even amidst the barrenness of his pains. “Alas, there is civilized life in Ferelden! Yes, I fancy a good game, granted that you can provide enough competition for my sharp wits.”

Cullen’s snort is almost laughter, and his expression turns predatorial for a second. Either that, or Dorian is seeing things he generally would like to see in a place he really, truly, deeply shouldn’t. Either way, the man makes it for the door and holds it open for Dorian in mock servility. “Let’s see if my backwater barbarian tactics will prove... entertaining for your magister highness, Lord Pavus.”

Dorian stands up with a long stretch to his sore limbs, if only to conceal a faint bout of distaste at hearing those honorifics, playful as they may be. “I may go lightly on the troops and servants who call me magister, but I will not stand for anyone who attends the War Council of this Inquisition to display such cultural carelessness. Yes, I once was an altus, one step away from the Magisterium... yet I took a continent of distance from that title when I fled my country to join our beloved ranks. Not even ‘Lord Pavus’ is that accurate anymore, in all honesty, since I’m as good as disinherited.” Short lived happiness, then. His mood is still sour, but he regrets the acidic coating of the words as soon as they come out, even as he starts following the Commander out of the tower and towards the main body of the castle.

Cullen, however, seems to be employing great efforts in maintaining relations with Dorian friendly, despite his snappy attitude. A better soul, indeed. How infuriating. “Just Dorian, then?”

These days, just Dorian seems to be not much and a great lot to be, all at once. “I’d say so - at least until some charming gentleman sweeps me off my feet and gives me his heart and name, since you southerners seem to be so forward in that sense, at least.”

Cullen rolls his eyes skywards, but he is smiling. “Trying to catch some Orlesian fancypants, get some of that nobility back? Josephine certainly could introduce you a baron or two - just make sure his troops come to our forces as part of the marriage bargain, will you?”

They enter the gardens while Dorian struggles not to double back in laughter. It would hurt his already abused muscles too much to react to that hilarity as deserved. “You truly are incapable of thinking about anything that does not revolve around work!”

“You are not entirely wrong about that,” Cullen informs with a tiny grin, setting the pieces on the round table of the gazebo. “But right now, I’m thinking about how I’ll beat you six ways into humiliation and back at this game.”

Ah, the sweet call of a challenge. “Keep you kinks to yourself, Commander.”

With only an unamused stare for an answer, Dorian takes a seat and focusses on the pieces. It seems like a lifetime ago that he last played chess - in some ways, it truly has been so. His usual adversaries were his mother… or Alexius. Now, neither of them can offer him the pleasantry of a match after a long day at the Circle of Vyrantium, when delving deep into the theories of the arcane and the occult left him feeling so graciously sated.

Yet, Cullen is offering him a match after a horrible day in the Inquisition, and maybe he can still take old comforts in renewed habits.

“It seems a bit… unfair, though,” Cullen says after a few long minutes in silence, moving his knight in a clear movement to bait Dorian’s rook. “You have never called me anything but Commander.”

“Out loud,” Dorian’s lewd once-over is a reflex, pointless flirtation being the first and most powerful of his masks in face of risk. Cullen’s flustered squirm is truly just a delightful bonus, and Dorian has to snicker as he moves a pawn nonchalantly. “But by all means, I’m all for equality, Cullen.”

“Thanks,” and Dorian doesn’t know what he’s being thanked for. Probably the game that Cullen wins ten moves and a spectacular checkmate later. 

The pale mountain sun is well on its way to disappearance when they part ways with mutual reassurances they will catch up with belated work the next morning. The chill in Dorian’s bones never truly leaves, but he falls asleep under a pile of bear skins like a barbarian warlord and sleeps in blessed dreamlessness.

He may have been the one to leave Tevinter, but the warmth of home had deserted him long before. Perhaps by losing the last remnants of it, someday he may find a new one.


End file.
